Holt's Gamble (39 page)

Sees the Sky, a shorter version of his brother, raised his lance in greeting, then brought his horse to a jog beside Clay's.

Clay kept his eyes on the crowded circle of people ahead and he realized he'd ridden into the middle of a rollicking game of Buffalo Pound. Having no desire to interfere with the game, he motioned to Spotted Frog to pull up just short of the clearing, so they could watch the end of the game unobtrusively.

He'd seen it played before and could understand now why there was such a commotion. It was a game of skill, speed and within which the "hunters" try to corral the "buffalo" without either side making bodily contact. The goal was a three-foot gate through which the "buffalo" had to be herded.

This time, the players were young boys. They all looked to be near ten or twelve, dressed only in breech-clouts and headbands, and covered head to toe with dirt.

Clay could easily see why the boy who played the buffalo had been chosen. He was fast, with a long-limbed grace that belied his obvious youth. Chasing him were six other young warriors, who, though agile, couldn't match his dexterity or speed.

The crowd cheered him as he feinted right when the others went left, rolling nearly beneath their feet to escape.

"Ee-yii!"
came the boy's crow of success as he raced ahead. At the head of the circle, Clay's old friend, Many Horses, kept score, tallying the winning two points for the "buffalo" with a pair of smooth round river rocks. Each hunter, respectively, lost two of his.

A cheer went up for the boy who'd eluded his captors and won the game. The crowd closed in around him, offering their appreciation. Clay wondered if he knew the boy—if he was an older version of one of the children he'd come to know six years ago. It was hard to tell with all that dirt, he thought with a speculative grin.

Spotted Frog nudged his pony forward with a nod to Clay, and together the three rode into the clearing. Many Horses was the first to spot him riding between his two braves. One by one, heads turned in Clay's direction. Reaction, he noted, ranged from surprise to downright hostility, but all comments were silenced with a slashing gesture from Many Horses.

Clay stopped his stallion before the chief, whose solemn expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts. Many Horses was a young chief, one of several in the tribe. His strong body was that of a warrior, though in practice, he counseled his people in peace.

"Haáhe, hóovehe."
Clay spoke in the other man's tongue as he dismounted. "Hello, my friend. It has been a long time since we have looked into each other's eyes."

"Yours have grown older,
vé-ho-e,"
Many Horses observed, a sad smile softening his strong features. "And wiser, I think."

Clay tipped his head in agreement. "Time changes a man," he allowed.

"You are still a brother to the People, Sacred Bear Killer," Many Horses replied, using the name that had been given him years ago. "That has not changed."

"Your words honor me, Many Horses," Clay answered, relieved and grateful that he'd been welcomed. "It is good to be back among the People again. I have missed being here."

The chief motioned to Spotted Frog. "Stake his stallion beside my lodge where the grass is thick. Sacred Bear Killer will be my guest."

Spotted Frog led Clay's horse and mule away. The crowd began drifting off as it became apparent that the
vé-ho-e
posed no immediate threat, though it was obvious some were disappointed that his appearance hadn't occasioned more excitement.

Clay scanned the retreating faces. Some were familiar. Many more were not. The dirt-encrusted boys from the Buffalo Pound game watched him from a short distance away. The tall one—the "buffalo"—cast a suspicious glance at Clay through narrowed eyes. Something about the boy bothered Clay, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Clay tipped his chin up at the boy in silent acknowledgment. The boy's eyes widened, revealing, to Clay's utter surprise, eyes the color of new green shoots of grass. Clay's lips parted in astonishment and the boy turned and bolted away, disappearing into the crowd.

Clay turned to his friend, who had watched the exchange. "He's not Cheyenne?"

Many Horses shook his head. "Forgive him. He has become one of us now. He has much to prove."

Clay had known that the Cheyenne sometimes took white children captive and adopted them into the tribe. He'd simply never seen one in this camp before. "Prove? To whom?"

Many Horses started walking slowly toward his tepee. "To the others. To himself. But his heart is brave and he will make a good Cheyenne."

"Where did he come from?"

He gave Clay an inquiring look. "South. A hunting party found him. He was close to death. His people were killed by Crow raiders. It was many suns before he spoke of it."

The hairs on the back of Clay's neck bristled with cold suspicion. He thought again of the green eyes, so like Kierin's.
It couldn't be,
he thought, fingering the locket at his neck.
Could it?
"Did he tell you his name, Many Horses? His
vé-ho-e
name?"

Many Horses nodded. "He called himself Mat-hew."

Chapter 20

Clay's face went pale. "Oh, my God."

Many Horse's brows drew together in a frown. "You know this boy?"

"No... not personally," came Clay's slow response. "He may be the brother of my woman."

"Is this why you have come?"

Clay glanced up at his old friend. "No," he answered, but he wondered, ironically, if it was.

"Come into my lodge. We shall talk of this later."

With a nod, Clay followed Many Horses back to his tepee, still shaken by his discovery. If it
was
Matthew, it would change everything and his plans to return to Missouri were about to go all to hell.

The pair walked through the village, past the isolated camp of the
Ma-o-hóohevase,
the Red Shields—the elite warriors who lived apart from the rest of the village and lived by their own rules; past dozens more tepees, all set up so their entrances faced east, toward the dawn.

There were other societies—The Dog-men, the Bowstrings, the Wolf Warriors. All had different rules within the structure of the tribe. Like Spotted Frog and Sees the Sky, Clay remembered many of the braves he passed and they saluted to him with a nod as he walked by.

Many Horses' lodge was set up in the center of the village along with the other chiefs of the People. Stepping inside, Clay noted it was as spacious and orderly as it always had been. Sleeping robes occupied the sides of the lodge. Beside these, neatly stacked, were Many Horses' weapons and medicine bundle. Corn Woman, Many Horses' only wife, was stirring something in a skin pot suspended above the slow-burning cook fire.

She was still as beautiful as Clay remembered. In spite of a thin strand of pure white that streaked her hair in front, she was younger by a few years than her husband—his guess was close to thirty. When she straightened, he saw that she was once again heavy with child. She smiled broadly when she saw Clay enter behind her husband.

"I had a dream that you would return soon, Sacred Bear Killer," she said with some satisfaction. "You are too thin."

Clay laughed softly at her bluntness. "It is good to see you, too, Corn Woman. The memory of your cooking still sweetens my dreams. Perhaps you can fatten me up while I am here."

She chuckled, pleased by his compliment. The two had shared a special bond since the time seven years ago when Clay had saved the life of her only son.

"Where is Lame Beaver?" he asked. "He must be nearly fourteen summers by now."

"He hunts with the men now," she said proudly. "He has grown handsome and strong like his father." She glanced with obvious love at her husband.

"Saaaa!
Woman," Many Horses grumbled as he pulled his pipe from its intricately beaded sheath. "Your mouth runs like a creek in spring. Leave us now, so we might smoke in peace."

Corn Woman grinned knowingly and gave him an affectionate touch on the shoulder before waddling out the tepee flap.

"You are a lucky man, my friend," Clay told him, leaning against the willow backrest. "You must be the envy of many braves to have such a wife."

Many Horses' expression softened. "It is good to have a woman who admires you. Yours is such a woman?"

Clay pulled a packet of tobacco from within his shirt and handed it to the other man. "Yes," he said, and his chest squeezed painfully at the thought of her.
When she's not fighting me.

"But you are not with her, my brother. Why is this?"

"There is much to tell you. Let us smoke first."

Many Horses lit the pipe and tipped it in all four directions—north, south, west and east—before drawing the blue smoke into his lungs. He handed it to Clay, who repeated the gesture before taking his turn. Smoking the pipe was a gesture of peace and symbolized the longstanding friendship they shared.

He told Many Horses about Kierin, about their escape from Independence. And he told him about the massacre. Lieutenant Fleming had been right in thinking the Cheyenne would hear of it by the time Clay got there. Word had reached them already and anger ran rife through the hot-blooded braves who were hungry to set the Whites straight. As he had in the past, Many Horses had preached peace, but all feared the worst because of what had happened.

"Our brothers, the Sioux, will meet something very hard now," Many Horses said with a shake of his head. "But none can blame them for what they did. Conquering Bear, their chief, was killed that day. Many of his warriors are thirsty for the blood of the Yellow Legs. They say there are not many—it would not be hard to wipe them out."

"They are wrong." Clay searched Many Horses' obsidian eyes. "If the Sioux attack them, the Yellow Legs will send more. And more. They will come until they cover the prairies like blades of buffalo grass. And they will wipe out all the tribes from the Plains."

Many Horses looked at him skeptically, then drew a long pull on the pipe. "Many are hungry. Many of our people have been wiped out already by their sickness. The
vé-ho-e
in the rolling things drive the buffalo from our hunting lands or leave their flesh rotting in the sun." He shook his head sadly. "My brothers ask if we should let this thing happen."

"I cannot tell you what is right, Many Horses. I can tell you there are some honorable white men, even as there are dishonorable ones. The one who started this fight with the Sioux did not understand honor. He knew only his own hunger for power. And there are many like him.

"You must follow what your heart tells you. But if you choose to fight the Yellow Legs soldiers, I tell you this: Many Cheyenne will die."

"I will think on this," Many Horses said, putting the glowing tip of a burning twig to the bowl of his pipe. He took a long draw, filling his lungs with the fragrant smoke. He handed the pipe to Clay and leaned back against his willow backrest.

"The boy..." Clay asked, leaning back, too. "Whose lodge does he sleep in?"

"The lodge of my wife's sister, Buffalo Wallow Woman. It makes her heart glad to have a child in her tepee again. Her son died of the
vé-ho-e
sickness two winters ago. Little Fox brings her much happiness."

Little Fox.
A name befitting a survivor like Matthew. "If he is my woman's brother, she will want him back." Clay paused. "And I will have to take him."

A frown played at the corners of the other man's mouth. "Speak with him first, before you decide. If he is the one you seek, and he wishes to go with you, there will be time to talk to Buffalo Wallow Woman."

Clay unfolded his legs and stood in the spacious tepee. "Do you know where I will find him?"

"He has been gentling a gelding pony for himself in the meadow to the north of the creek," Many Horses said. "He is a fast learner. Someday, he will be a great leader. But the lessons come hard for him."

"Life has been hard for him, I think," Clay replied. With a sigh, he lifted the flap of the tepee and headed out into the waning daylight to find him.

Dark spires of pine and Douglas fir silhouetted themselves against the vermillion evening sky as Clay left the circle of tepees behind and made his way around the edge of the dammed-up pond. The thick carpet of fragrant pine needles absorbed the sound of his footsteps. Not far from the camp, a clearing opened into a grassy meadow where Clay spotted the herd of horses grazing in the natural enclosure.